


Until he's forgiven

by Emptynarration



Category: Youtube RPF, Youtube egos
Genre: Angst, Character Death, Death, Emotional Hurt, Hurt, Hurt No Comfort, Sad, Sad Ending, Self-Destruction, Self-Doubt, Self-Harm, Self-Hatred, Self-Worth Issues, Suicidal Thoughts, Suicide, in a way nothing graphic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-07
Updated: 2019-07-07
Packaged: 2020-06-24 03:27:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,114
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19715320
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Emptynarration/pseuds/Emptynarration
Summary: Carefully, he unwound the strings around himself, cutting them loose and tying them back together carefully. More and more, he could feel reality changing, as his words were barely above a whisper, not to be heard even by his own ears.Pulling and tugging at the strings, pulling himself out of them, making sure no thread stayed cut or loose. Any tainted by his presence, by the Author, were cut shorter and retied, weaved into a different stories.Until no one would spare a second thought about him anymore.





	Until he's forgiven

Living among the others now was a terrifying thing for the Host.

The Author had been a terrible person, disgusting, hurting even the egos just for his own sick amusement. Taking the one who couldn’t defend himself and breaking him, hurting him, leaving him covered in scars and memories that would never be gone from his mind.  
The Host was terrified of being like that, he was more scared of the Author than anyone was probably.

And oh how he _hated_ himself for having been that person.

He didn’t deserve this second chance, to live peacefully among the other egos and become friends. He didn’t even deserve to call the library his own now, after it had been standing empty for so long beneath the manor.  
He didn’t deserve anyone’s trust, and he didn’t deserve to make things right again. Memories couldn’t be erased no matter how hard he wished no one had to remember he had been the Author, and what the Author had done.

He could narrate away the scars he’s left, but it doesn’t erase the memories. It doesn’t erase the absolute terror the other’s face had held when Host had first been introduced to them.  
The absolute _hate_ in their eyes, the _distrust_. 

But he was the Host, now, and not the Author. 

Right?

He locked himself away as much as possible, writing in the little notebook Edward had given him. He was hated, everyone either hated him or was afraid of him. Even though the doctor hadn’t really known Author more than an introduction -and finding him with his ripped out eyes, his manic laugh, the power sizzling at his fingertips- he must have heard. He must have gotten to know.  
He must hate him as well, no matter how much he helped him now.

Host wrote all of it down, all the hate he internalized. He didn’t deserve this, he didn’t deserve to be given a chance as a new person, a new life.  
He didn’t deserve to even continue living.

If it weren’t for Edward, he would’ve probably killed himself with the act of ripping out his eyes. Haemophilia was a bitch, but even without it, such wounds so close to the brain had been _anything_ but safe.  
He _should_ have bleed out there.  
Alone in his cabin, powers too overwhelming, too powerful for his feeble mind, swamping him. He had always craved power, to get stronger, to hold control over _everything_. Foolishly, he had thought he could have the powers of a _god_. Never once considering his weak human body.

And what good had it brought him? The power had been too much, it had burnt his fingers, thrumming in his head and pushing against the restraints of his human body, the golden threads of reality wrapping around him too tightly, chocking him, cutting into him, until there was nothing but the burning heat of gold against his skin, and the feeling of blood cascading down his cheeks.

It had left its permanent mark on him, turning a strand of his hair a bright golden colour, electrified with reality pulsing in him, its threads constantly around him.  
Host was fully aware of reality being tied to him, winding around his limbs and making him move. He was nothing but a _Host_.  
A host to what he was being told. A host to speak of what reality would bring, a host to experience what hundreds of millions of timelines would bring.

His mind was constantly filled with variations upon variations of realities, every single choice changing reality in the smallest to the biggest amounts. It didn’t matter if the choice of cereal did nothing but change a moment in time, without a bigger impact upon life, or if the choice of a driver going earlier than usual resulting in an accident killing people, with a huge impact upon life.  
The Host saw it all, heard it all, felt it all.  
Being in a manor filled with people was so far worse than being inside of his cabin, all alone. Where there were less choices, less alternating realities. But here, he was surrounded by people making choices every second of their life, deciding on what to do, what to say, what to think, choices upon choices upon choices.  
It hurt, it hurt to hear so much, and it hurt to be surrounded by so many people.

It hurt to be in the middle of hundreds of realities were he was still the Author, where he hadn’t been accepted, where _he_ had been hurt instead, where he had been beaten and berated and belittled, where he had been nothing but a roach beneath a shoe.  
It hurt to see, to hear, to feel, all these realities where his life only went _down_ , where his self-hate wasn’t even close enough to what he _should_ feel.

And still, he stayed, and he spoke his narrations of the reality he was a part in, the reality which he didn’t know what would come his way, the reality where he couldn’t know if he’d stay or leave, be used or be hated, be free or be liked. He didn’t know, and it scared him, and he hated it, and he hated himself.  
His narrations helped him stay with his head where he should be, listening to the narrations of what was happening around him, where his body truly was at, where he truly belonged.

Sometimes, he let his mind drift.

Sometimes, he let himself experience different timelines, timelines where he had been different, where he wasn’t a disgusting person who deserved worse than death.  
It was nice, the realities where he was happy, where he was liked, where he was loved. Where he helped new egos with their anxiety, where he was happily in love with someone, where he didn’t have a reason to hate himself.  
He always had to get back to the reality he truly lived in, though, and it just hurt him more to think of what he _could_ have had, if he hadn’t made these choices in his life, if he had been just a little better, if he had been someone who was liked, instead of feared.

He isolated himself from the other egos, he kept away from them in fear of them, in fear of their hate and the fear of their disgust.  
He didn’t fault them for it, really. He deserved it. He deserved their hate, he deserved their distrust. No one should care about him, no one should mind where he was, what he was doing, why he was still alive.

All he wanted was to punish himself, and all he wanted was to be forgiving for the terrible person he had been. He didn’t know why anyone would try to help him, he didn’t know why Edward cared about him, why he did what he did.

Hiding in his coat, too big and hiding himself completely in it, he littered himself in wounds, punishments for all he had done, for all the pain he had caused, and punishing himself for receiving kindness he didn’t deserve.  
He could take care not to hurt himself in a way that would be dangerous. To burn himself with fire and ice, to make his skin bleed only after Edward had had to clean his eyes again and had injected him with the clotting agents.  
He let his skin get covered in scars, adding and adding and adding, hating himself more and more, hating to be alive, hating to exist.

Why couldn’t he just cease to?

He knew no one would be bothered, He knew no one would care, and he knew no one would spare a second thought of him being gone. It’d be a good riddance, he was nothing but another fear for the others, that he would go back on his word, that he was still the Author, that he wasn’t changed and just playing a sick game with them.  
Host knew, he knew if he weren’t here anymore, it’d be better for everyone. All the egos would be able to sleep lighter, not having to worry about him anymore, that he was still here, still a potential danger.

He hated it, he hated it, he hated it.

He hated _himself_.

It didn’t do any good that he craved the kindness Edward showed him, that he was so touch-starved that the simple brush of fingers on his skin changing bandages made him shiver and tense, wanting to sob for how long he’s been alone, for how long he’s been feared and hated.  
He knew he wanted more, he wanted to be closer, and he found himself wanting more and more of Edward. He found himself liking the doctor’s voice, he found himself liking to just share the same space, and he found himself wondering and wondering more and more, what it’d be like to be closer, to feel more of Edward, to feel real affections of the man.  
He found himself falling in love, and he hated himself for it.

He didn’t deserve to love, and much less to _be_ loved. He knew there was no way Edward would ever like him, that _anyone_ would ever like him, and there was no way that he could ever be forgiven for all he’s done no matter how much time passes.  
He’s disgusting, a terrible person, and just because he wasn’t the Author anymore, didn’t change a thing.  
It was still the same body, it was still the same person -wasn’t it?- it was still him. It was still he who had hurt them, it was still he who was feared, it was still he who was hated.

He wanted it to stop, he wanted it all to just stop, he wanted to be _gone_.

Hurting himself wasn’t enough, he couldn’t punish himself enough for all the disgusting things he had done, the things he _was_. He shouldn’t be here, and he shouldn’t ever be thought of again. As long as he was here, he was nothing but a terrible burden, wasn’t he?  
He just wanted to be forgotten, he wanted to be alone, he wanted to be lost in realities and let this feeble body rot away without anyone ever finding him.

As much as the strings of reality were controlling him, he was controlling them.

No matter how much time passed, how many more egos would come and not ever know of the Author, Host would never deserve any of the good things.  
He didn’t deserve a good future, and he didn’t deserve a future _at all_. Why should he even stay, in the end?  
No one wanted him here. No one wanted him to even exist. All he brought was suffering, and what good did _that_ do?

He left, blood dripping down his cheeks, narrations thrumming against his skull, wanting to burst free. He’d cut himself out of this reality, he’d destroy his existence and he’d make sure the others would never be bothered by a thought of him.

He held the strings of reality, and not anyone else. They were wrapped around is fingers just like how a puppeteer held the strings of their puppet, ready to move them around and around. And if the strings were cut, the puppet would fall and crumble.  
And the puppeteer would be useless.

Carefully, he unwound the strings around himself, cutting them loose and tying them back together carefully. More and more, he could feel reality changing, as his words were barely above a whisper, not to be heard even by his own ears.  
Pulling and tugging at the strings, pulling himself out of them, making sure no thread stayed cut or loose. Any tainted by his presence, by the Author, were cut shorter and retied, weaved into a different stories.

Until the Author ceased to exist, and Host’s bandages were so soaked they slid down his face.

Until the Host was almost free of the strings, and he could _feel_ how there were less and less books in the library, how there was no room proclaiming his name anymore, how there was no trace of himself left.

Until the blood that had dripped from the Host’s cheeks down to the floor finally was gone, and had never been there in the first place.

Until the last string snapped off of the Host, and he fell, and he never touched the ground.

Until the Host had never been more than a faint idea of their creator, but never gotten used.

Until no one had any recollections of an ego named “The Host” or “The Author”.

Until he was truly gone, and no one would miss him anymore.

**Author's Note:**

> I just needed some more angst and sadness  
> I could've written a happy ending to this actually but  
> i didnt want to
> 
> but hey, i wanted to make it even worse  
> i wanted to write host admitting his crush to edward  
> and edward rejecting him
> 
> i just didnt find a place to fit it in so its not there


End file.
